


grace the fall

by ImperialEvolution



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Greek Mythology - Freeform, I'm Sorry, M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness, this is a mess but i love it, this is just an excuse to write ridiculous mythological parallels and I will not apologise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 23:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17907572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialEvolution/pseuds/ImperialEvolution
Summary: He has Daedalus' hands and Athena's bright eyes, and you pick him out and decide rather quickly that you want him.





	grace the fall

He has Daedalus' hands and Athena's bright eyes, and you pick him out and decide rather quickly that you want him.

So you watch him, lie in wait, map his self-destructive tendencies on the back of your hand. He’s already a far more interesting man than your last recruit, so much more dysfunction for you to sculpt with. He roams his prison with an attitude of contempt, disproportionately annoyed when things often don’t go his way.

The photo in his file doesn’t do him justice. There’s war in his eyes, wild and bright in his irises and Athena has nothing on this.

You sidle up to him in a bar and let him spill secrets into your already bitter drink, and you whisper the idea of feathered iron wings in his ear, just hints at your bigger picture.

He doesn’t hesitate. You tell him, _Take that thing apart, quick as you like_ and he launches himself into the sky on iron and copper wings, and maybe it’s something to do with the lock on the door, but he flies because you tell him he can.

(You’re a damn good liar, but you can’t quite convince yourself there’s no wrong in watching him with ancient longing in your eyes.)

His scars aren’t wax shapes but they are burns, fire and brimstone he can sculpt in and condense into beautiful machines you have no hope of ever understanding. He took what Prometheus gave him and shattered it and sewed pieces of it into his skin, made it _subservient_. And of course there are beautiful things in your life, but nothing stacks up to his handcrafted mayhem and flickering Greek fire in his heart.

He’s gorgeous as he falls, sharpened smiles that cut through the air like Thanatos’ scythe and he laughs as he spirals further from the moral high ground.

If he's Icarus, what does that make you? Are you the ocean he falls into or the sun that beckons? You don’t know if you’re Apollo or Poseidon, but either way, you’re a _god_ to him.

You're the scorching, seething sun, radiant and he looks at you with glares and only appreciates you when you’re gone. And you force him against the wall, dirty red hands on his copper skin, drawing kisses from those golden lips, and he revels in your plasma stained touch.

You’re the ominous, ostentatious ocean, soothing velvet and he dives right into you and watches with reverent and fearful eyes. And you wash over him, your hands gilded waves on the back of his neck and lapping at his wrists, tugging gently at his clothes to bring him back under your saltwater rule.

You… dream of him, sometimes.

Well, that ain't true; you dream of him often. You dream of his fall, how the metal and wax of his wings will burn as he re-enters the atmosphere, how his bones will shatter when he hits the concrete sea.

(You wake up coated in sweat on those nights, shaking as you clench fistfuls of sheets and you hate how you _bleed_ for him.)

More often, you’ll dream of his touch, how his deft hands would feel on your chest and at your hips, dragging fingernails at your back, how his breath would feel, panting and hot on your collar bones.

(You wake up coated in sweat on those nights, shaking as you clench fistfuls of sheets and you hate how you _beg_ for him.)

Space changes things. It’s in orbit around the ~~red~~  blue dwarf star that the realisation comes that he was never Icarus at all.

Because you’re the one who’s falling (have fallen, from the second you met him) and Apollo never loved you and the ocean doesn’t care if you live or die.

He was never Icarus because he’s just a man, just a man who demands a gun to your head in some sort of vengeance.

If you’re Icarus, what is he to you?

With the way he’s looking at you now: absolutely nothing.

* * *

  _perhaps apollo let him fall._

_perhaps he kissed icarus’ wings with sunsoaked lips_

_and burnt him into legend_

_so that he may hold him forever_

_in a kinder world._

_-[Noah](http://lucem.tumblr.com/post/144800817714/perhaps-apollo-let-him-fall-perhaps-he-kissed) _

**Author's Note:**

> The word count? n i c e. Hit me up on tumblr if you still use it @imperial-evolution or my writing blog @imp-blot


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